


Man on a Wire

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Natasha falls first, POV Female Character, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He moves with a certainty, a sharpness she isn’t sure she’s ever seen before, not even in the handlers she left behind after so many years. She wants to challenge him, wants to make that skill and confidence her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man on a Wire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jacedesbff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacedesbff/gifts).



> Thanks to [samalander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samalander/pseuds/samalander/works), [sugarfey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarfey/pseuds/sugarfey/works), and [frea_o](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frea_o/pseuds/frea_o/works) for beta and cheerleading. 
> 
>  
> 
>   
> Banner by [frea_o](http://archiveofourown.org/users/frea_o/pseuds/frea_o/works)

I was like a volcano  
Just waiting to explode  
But I have been resurrected, reborn  
And I have been transformed  
I was a green eyed monster  
Could you tell I was afraid?  
I sat myself down and shot my fear in the face  
([X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QGBBTsyYFZM))

Natasha decides she wants to fuck Clint Barton the first time she lays eyes on him. 

He’s crouched on a rooftop in Istanbul, playing backup for the S.H.I.E.L.D. team she’s already beaten to the punch. The agents are entering the house of a diplomat she’s left lying dead in his bed, his clearances now preserved in the microchip around her neck. She’s been expecting them, finished the job ahead of schedule and gave herself time to watch their approach from a secret ledge of her own. The agents aren’t quite as elegant as she is, though, don’t have bodies made to melt into the shadows and bend under laser security beams. The young dark-haired kid out in front is the one who triggers an alarm when they step into the foyer, and that’s how Natasha gets treated to her first show.

Bodyguards—still unaware of their own new irrelevance—come swarming into the room and the bowman on the roof surges into action. He moves with a certainty, a sharpness she isn’t sure she’s ever seen before, not even in the handlers she left behind after so many years. The first arrow he shoots attaches itself with a little _thunk_ to the large-paned window nearest the team and a fraction of a second later the glass melts, leaving a clear path for him to aim through. The next two take the largest of the bodyguards neatly between the eyes, traveling at angles that ought to be impossible. Natasha watches as he nocks and fires three more in rapid succession, the tension of the string resonating through her in little thrills of adrenaline. 

She wants to challenge him, she thinks. Wants to make that skill and confidence her own.

* * *

Three more months slip by before she gets the opportunity to confront him up close. Three months of hacking S.H.I.E.L.D.’s comm frequencies and sniping their targets from under their noses. Three months of the price on her life growing ever-steeper, of her determination waning and the exhaustion of the fight crushing like a boulder on her chest.

The job in London is a ruse, a trap, and she knows full well when she takes the tip that her death is the intended outcome. She could run, she thinks, could kill first like she’s been doing all along, but the idea doesn’t appeal. Instead Natasha procures yet another evening gown—emerald green, plunging dangerously in the back—and paints her lips the color of arterial blood, sets her jaw like she still cares about her life. 

She zeroes in on Barton the moment she steps into the party where she’s supposed to seduce a mark who doesn’t exist. It’s a big glitzy holiday affair and he’s seated on the bench of an impressive grand piano, plunking out a rendition of Jingle Bell Rock which aptly showcases the breathtaking dexterity that caught her attention in the beginning.

He finishes the piece with a flourish as she approaches, and she’s suddenly certain that he’s felt her eyes on his back, adjusted his timing appropriately. Barton stands and gives her a little nod before holding out his hand.

He doesn’t dance quite as well as he shoots or plays, but there’s a lightness and a quickness in his step that keep her engaged, like his muscles might be poised to spring into acrobatics should the situation warrant. 

She leans in after their third circuit of the crowded floor, and to his credit he does not flinch as her lips brush the soft skin of his earlobe. “Aren’t you going to take me upstairs?”

Barton laughs. “Aren’t you going to make it a little harder for me?”

Natasha quirks an eyebrow and curls two fingers around the lapel of his suit jacket. “I think I can make you plenty hard.”

* * *

He takes her to the goddamn penthouse, probably chosen in equal parts for its relative isolation and his weird affinity for heights. 

The inside of the room looks suitably luxurious and totally innocent—exactly what she’s expected; he is not, after all, a novice at his job, though she’s only ever seen him work from a distance, isn’t sure what he’ll be like at point-blank range. 

She crowds him against the wall just beyond the threshold, kisses lips she’s certain are every bit as deadly as her own, her fingers itching to loosen his belt, to unwrap that suit like a fucking present. He makes a little noise of surprise against her mouth, and when he pulls away, she catches his tie in her fingers. For a moment she expects him to resist, but he just follows when she tugs, lets her lead him to the overly-plush bed and falls back against it when she shoves his shoulders. 

Natasha pounces lightly, intending to trap him against the mattress, but he catches her wrist, hooks an ankle up over her hip and rolls them over, his erection pressing into her belly as he meets her gaze, his own eyes dark and a little desperate, the least controlled she’s ever seen him. She carries that victory in a breathy laugh as she pulls his shirt from his pants, brings one hand around to palm him through the heavy fabric before finding the decorative metal of his belt buckle. 

“Not yet,” says Barton, catching her wrists and pulling them away from his body, though his tone says otherwise, the edge of steel in his voice practically begging for more of her touch. 

The study in contradictions is intriguing enough that she decides to see what he’ll do if she obeys for a moment, and Natasha laces her hands above her head, arching up off the bed a bit to give him an impressive view of her breasts. He makes a helpless noise in the back of his throat and tugs down the zipper on the side of her dress, peeling it off of her as she moves compliantly to help him. She isn’t wearing anything underneath but a pair of lacy panties, the apparent innocence of them her own dirty little secret. Barton pauses as he slides them down her hips as well, regarding her naked body with a sort of confusion she’s never seen before, at least from this position.

“Problem?” she asks, arching an eyebrow again. 

“You don’t have any weapons,” he says, and of course that search was the purpose of his haste, because he isn’t her usual oblivious mark. He’s here as her executioner. 

“Sorry,” she purrs. “Didn’t realize that was your thing. Although the bow should maybe have been a clue that you’re—nontraditional.”

“You know what I meant,” says Barton, refusing to go along with her act this time. She can still feel his erection straining against his pants in a way that has to be painful, but his expression is all laser focus now. 

“Who says I need weapons?” asks Natasha. “Come on.” She rocks her hips upward to give him just a hint of friction. “Are we going to do this or aren’t we?”

The lines around his eyes just deepen a little further at that. “You have to know I’m here to kill you.”

She shrugs. “Lots of people want to kill me. Lucky for you, you’re the only one of them I want to fuck. So the way I figure it, we both win. You get to bring S.H.I.E.L.D. my head on a big silver platter, and I get to have a good time first.”

Something changes in his face then, and he takes a deep breath before sitting back on his heels, his eyes fathomless. Natasha still has her wrists above her head, pinned by his gaze alone as her heart pounds wildly in her chest.

“No,” he says slowly. “I have a better idea.”

* * *

Natasha tries again the week after the S.H.I.E.L.D. psychiatry team finally clears her for training. The past two months have eased her exhaustion and her death wish, but done nothing to quell the ripple of desire that goes through her every time Clint Barton enters her vicinity.

It’s becoming more of a nuisance than anything else, really. He’s not unaffected by her—she knows that from his body’s reaction that night in the penthouse—but she’s never met a mark who was harder to pin down, who could resist the sight of her naked and pleading. Now he’s a puzzle that she needs to crack, a challenge she needs to best for the sake of her pride as much as her desire. 

He’s at the range when she finds him, of course. She hasn’t spent too much time outside Medical yet, but it’s enough to know that he has his own personal archery course and spends most of his waking hours there when he’s not on a job or taking home women (and men) who aren’t _her_. 

Barton doesn’t move or otherwise acknowledge her entrance, just reaches back for another arrow and sends it flying straight into the bullseye. There’s a momentary pause during which Natasha wonders why he hasn’t moved again, but then the arrow explodes into a puff of toxic-looking yellow steam that quickly gets swept away by the room’s circulation fan. 

Natasha leans against the wall in silence, watching with her arms crossed over her chest as he empties the rest of his quiver. There are two more arrows that explode into different colors of chemical smoke, one that drills itself through the center of the target a second after it lands, and a fourth that sprouts a delicate silk flower out of its shaft. The others are more traditional, and she decides that those are her favorites, the ones that really showcase his skill as they fly at angles that ought to be impossible, making her breath catch a little each time. 

When he’s finished he turns and pins her with his eyes, flashing a smile that twists something in her gut. “Enjoy the show?”

She is not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how easily he’s impressed her. She’s studied him long enough to know that he enjoys the thrill of a conquest every bit as much as she does. “Is that what it was?”

Barton laughs. “Glad to see they decided to let you rejoin the human race.” He pulls each of the arrows from the array of targets and drops them into his quiver before folding his bow into its case. Natasha finds herself biting back a magnificently irrational wave of jealousy at the reverence in his touch, the way he looks up and catches her eye as if to make sure she’s watching. 

“Why?” she asks, following him toward the locker room without hesitation. It’s late for anyone but the most dedicated to be training, and she’s pretty sure they’re alone as they step inside. Excellent. “Lonely?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Last time I checked, _you_ were the one who just spent two months in solitary.”

Natasha arches her back, stretching slowly as she pulls her shirt over her head, letting him see that she’s chosen not to wear anything underneath again. “True. And I owe you so much. What are you going to do about it?”

He snorts softly, and gives her a look she can’t quite read, a mix between desire and amusement that makes her suddenly furious. “Nothing right now. Or here. You’re playing me again, and I’m pretty sure all the surfaces in this room are harboring the next world plague.” 

He tosses her a clean shirt from his bag and disappears into one of the stalls.

* * *

She makes one more attempt after their first time in the field together—first time as partners for S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway. She knows she’s better than any of the agents she’s ever seen him work with, and Natasha feels a dangerous sense of pride at the words of measured praise coming through the comms when they’re finished.

The safehouse where they’re to await the extraction team is scarcely more than a humid little room in Caracas with a bathroom and a too-small cot that creaks distractingly when Clint sits down or anytime he shifts his weight. 

“Ten hours ‘til our ride gets here,” he says, snapping his phone shut with the slightest hint of irritation. 

“Bored?” asks Natasha, letting the word stretch into three syllables of pure suggestion, the kind of overt seduction she hasn’t used on him since they became partners, since that day on the range. 

“Not particularly,” says Clint, like he knows exactly what sort of bait she’s dangling. He falls back against the bed dramatically, the motion drawing what sounds like a death cry from the flimsy metal frame. 

She can’t tell, though, whether his disinterest is feigned, intended to make her work harder for what she wants. There is a spark of _something_ in his eye, the same sort of challenge she’s seen occasionally when sparring with him, when he thinks he’s done something _nice_ , like bringing her watery tea in a paper cup. (And yet she can’t deny the way these things throw off her equilibrium, the way they make her want him even more.)

“I think we should fuck,” says Natasha, deciding to be blunt. She crosses the room to stand over him, folding her arms as she meets his eyes.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

She shrugs. “We did a good job. We’re stuck here. It would be fun.” She slips a knee between his legs where they dangle off the bed. “Don’t you want me?”

For a moment his face shifts, but she still can’t quite read the emotions there—anger, she thinks, and something that might be disappointment. “No. Not like that.”

“Then what _do_ you want?” asks Natasha, her tone sharp with barely-contained frustration.

Clint sits up slowly, but that still doesn’t quite put them on eye-level with her standing, and he tips his chin up at her defiantly. “Right now, I think I’d like to take a nap.”

“No,” she says acidly, “what am I missing? I _know_ you want me, I was _there_ in London. I know you’ve slept with at least half the female agents at S.H.I.E.L.D. and a good number of the men, too. So it’s not a thing against fucking coworkers. What’s the problem, then? Afraid?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Princess,” says Clint. “If you’re still asking those questions, then the answer is still no.” 

He pulls away from her gaze with an ease she isn’t accustomed to seeing turned back on her and gathers his legs up onto the bed, stretching out with his hands laced under his head. He might as well be in another world as he stares up at the ceiling, impervious to the way she’s glaring at him. End of conversation. She knows when retreat is wisest.

* * *

“What questions should I be asking?” says Natasha, when he opens the door of his apartment. It’s just after midnight two days after they get back from Caracas. It isn’t that late, knowing his habits, but she thinks he’s probably fallen asleep on the couch, judging by the way his hair is standing on end and the slightly flushed crease marks on his cheek. 

He swipes a hand over his eyes and groans. “Don’t you ever give up?”

“No,” says Natasha. “Not when I’m--” She almost says _on a mission_ but that’s all wrong, exactly the opposite of the myriad confusing things she feels for him. “Not when I want to understand.”

Clint steps back to let her in, apparently giving up on the idea of going back to sleep anytime soon. “What, exactly, is it that you want to understand?”

“Why won’t you have sex with me?” she asks directly, aware that it’s the same question he refused to answer before in Caracas, that she hasn’t really changed her strategy because she doesn’t know how. 

“Why does it matter?” he counters, his jaw set with the same determination she sees in the field. He is in control here, no matter how much she wishes it weren’t true. “So you’re bored and horny. Why me? You could have your pick.”

“I don’t know!” she snaps, aware that she is on the brink of a dangerous loss of control, that she ought to simply agree with him and go find a more willing mark. She doesn’t want to, though, plain and simple. She wants _him_ , more than ever before if that’s possible. “I just--I want _you_ , and it’s a problem I need to eliminate.”

He blinks at her. “Why? What part of this is a problem for you, Natasha? What kind of game are you trying to play?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she spits, angrier than she’s been in a while--at his refusal, at his confusion, at the fact that she is having to say these words aloud at all. “I want to be around you. And I want you to be _mine_. I want _you_ and the stupid calluses on your hands and the way you look at your target when you’re shooting. It’s distracting, and it’s a liability, and I have to get over it before it gets us both killed.”

“Don’t you get it?” asks Clint, his words suddenly a little frenzied. “Don’t you _get_ that it’s a risk for me too? God dammit, Natasha, I like you. I want you. But I—If we do this, I need it to be real. I need you to be willing to take the chance, because I—it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to take it on someone too. I need to be worth that to you.”

“I can’t do that,” she says icily, more reflex than anything else, but her survival instincts are too well-worn to simply swallow down. 

She turns and leaves before he has a chance to respond.

* * *

He’s on the roof of his building when she finds him again the next night, watching heavy clouds gather in the dark sky, occasionally lit by dim flares of lightning. He doesn’t react when she sits beside him, allowing her legs to dangle precariously off the edge. 

“How do you know you won’t miss?” she asks quietly, without turning to look at him. “When you’re shooting. I’ve never seen anyone more sure of anything, but—how do you know?”

He snorts softly, almost sadly. “I don’t. That’s the point, isn’t it? If I knew I’d never miss, it wouldn’t be any fun. Every shot is different. Every time. So I don’t _know_. I just do what feels right.”

“I don’t do relationships,” says Natasha, turning to meet his gaze at last, but finding no anger there, no surprise. 

He reaches out and takes her hand, turning it palm-up in his and running rough fingertips feather-light across the place where her pulse beats in her wrist. She shivers. “I’m not asking you to love me. I’m saying that I don’t want to do this if it isn’t at least a possibility that someday you might.”

Natasha studies his face for a moment and considers—that she wants him in ways she’s never believed before, ways that she isn’t sure have anything to do with sex, anything to do with strategy. He makes her feel boundless, afraid, and awash in possibilities. 

He is the surest thing she’s ever had, she thinks, then leans over and kisses him, fire in the sky above and the ground far, far below her feet.


End file.
